Fickle

Fickle thing, this mind when it wanders,
craving for treats while committing blunders,
overpowering rationale, and seeking the unknown,
it goes around and round the meadows alone.

Over the highs and below the lows,
Stumbling over the ledges of throes,
Seeking that one macaw that evades my sight,
Does my mind take off again in a futile flight.

Free-will supposes that the macaw exists,
Trying to soft-land the mind as it insists,
But relentless in its pursuit to brazenly crash,
does my mind defy the will in utmost brash.

Am I really in charge? I ask again,
a thousand times in wretched pain,
What happens, if the macaw is never meant to be?
Will I again survive the rough winds of the sea?

What is this force that pulls me so tight?
Tugging me towards it with all its might;
if the macaw is a myth- as true as this rhyme
then, why can't I stop to save my own time?

What is this belief, that transcends beyond-
the past, the present, and the future bond,
Utterly surreal, and possibly improbable,
should the mind not see the boldly implausible?

I'm afraid to crash, to burn, to char,
as I have done in the past not so far,
O dear mind, please stay still, and hear me out,
this ominous cycle must end without a doubt.

aeroyogi
25/10/2018